


FEELING WATCHED

by Kikoiku



Series: HOME ALONE [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Creepypasta, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Inspired by..., POV Second Person, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikoiku/pseuds/Kikoiku
Summary: You are home alone, and you hear on the news about the profile of a murderer who is on the loose. You look out the sliding glass doors to your backyard, and you notice a man standing out in the snow. He fits the profile of the murderer exactly, and he is smiling at you.You gulp, picking up the phone to your right and dialing 911. You look back out the glass as you press the phone to your ear, and notice he is much closer to you now.You then drop the phone in shock.There are no footprints in the snow.It's his reflection.An Original Work inspired by a Creepypasta found creepypasta.com.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: HOME ALONE [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681237
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	FEELING WATCHED

[](https://www.creepypasta.com/the-reflection/) Found On: creepypasta.com  
  
You're rummaging around in your kitchen, humming along to the song on the radio. You don't particularly like it, but it's just that kind of song that gets stuck in your head, weather you want it to or not. _Then again_ , you think. _Nobody really choses what gets stuck in their head._

So you hum along tonight, because you're in a good mood for no reason.

You're standing at the counter that's supposed to look like marble, but it has cracks and stains and just seems to be out of place in the small room. There is not much else in there, though. Two cupboards and the fridge. A stove with an oven underneath. That's it, but it's enough and you love every inch of it.

From your place at the counter you can look directly into the living room – you removed the wall when you bought the house a year ago – which is twice as big as the kitchen is. There's a small couch that you had for ages – it already accompanied you in your teenage room of that grey and hurtful household that your parents called a home – with it's floral pattern and frayed cushions. The armchair next to it is spotted and it doesn't match your fittings at all but it was a present from your grandpa – that old, ancient man – and it's cosy and it's yours, so you just smile away your friend's snarky comments, because you love it way too much not to.

The drawer on the left holds nothing but knitting supplies – which only your boyfriend knows – and the few pictures on top are almost everything that's left of your old life (besides the couch, that is). They show you and your little sister who you lost in a car accident ten years ago, your best friend and her childhood-dog, your grandparents on their wedding day.

You bought a coffee table a couple days ago, for the sole purpose of putting a self-made tablecloth onto it, as well as a thoughtfully chosen bouquet of yellow tulips, because they are your boyfriend's favourite and you like it when he smiles.

The TV on the opposite side of the room is running without sound, because you hate the Kardashians but your show will be on shortly and you don't like the feeling of being alone in an empty house, anyway.

You put onions into the pan on the stove to your left, before checking the heat and putting the chicken breasts into the oven. As you look up again – your show already starts three minutes late – there isn't your show to see, though.

Instead there's the yellow-black banner of the Breaking News and a blonde woman with a shimmering necklace around her beautiful neck and her lips form words you can't hear but there's a line just above her head that catches your eye and makes your mouth go dry. _Breakout From Local Prison_ it says, all in capslock, ringing in your head. You subconsciously turn off the radio where Ariana Grande is singing about One Less Problem, but you couldn't care less about that now. You try not to sprint, but you definitely walk faster (and almost trip over your carpet), before you grab the remote from the coffee table and finally put on the sound.

“-ighly dangerous," a shiver runs down your spine as you hear her voice, kind of stern, kind of cold, kind of serious. The corners of her mouth show a hint of trembling, the panic in her voice barely audible if you're not used to it. She continues: “He was last reported to be seen in the east end of the city” – your end – “Supposedly wearing a black hoodie, a pair of red jeans and green sneakers.”

Something about his description seems vaguely familiar, but you can't really place why. Somewhere in the back of your head there's bells ringing but your mind can't seem to find the memory.

“If seen, do not engage. Get somewhere safe and call the police immediately.”

Her words pass your ears briefly while your mind is running in circles, trying to figure out the clues.

And then you remember, kind of paralysed, because they insert a photo next to the reporter's head. You remember your boyfriend warning you of an old friend – his best friend, in fact – just this morning. A man, whose photo you saw on the wall of the entrance hall of his apartment. A man with blond hair and big ears and a threatening smile and murder in his eyes, an arm around your boyfriend's shoulders, being the exact opposite but matching him perfectly all at once.

You swallow dryly and your heart starts hammering in your chest, just like the day you saw his maniac smile on that photograph and suddenly you want your boyfriend by your side to hold you close, to keep you safe.

You turn back from the TV, walking back to the counter where you left your phone. Before you can reach it, however, your eyes fall onto the glass door next to the cupboard in which you keep your seasonings. It leads to a small backyard, where you hang your clothes to dry in the summer and you have blasting BBQs with your friends.

There's a man standing there, perfectly still, a sickening smile on his face. You're awfully aware of the fairy lights that you put around the doors to make it seem more homely and yet are doing quite the opposite now.

You stare at him and he stares back. You can't see half of his face, though, since he covered it with a strange mask with a weird pattern that you think you must recognise, but don't.

They didn't mention a mask.

And yet all you can think of is how it had snowed all day and his feet must be soaked from walking around so much. You just stand there, one hand on the edge of the counter, a foul taste in your mouth – and you notice that you're deeply, truly afraid for what may be he first time in your life.

You gulp dryly and your mind is running in circles. His eyes capture your stare – eyes that seem kind of cold and kind at the same time and you think you might know them – but you notice how the description matches him perfectly.

But that isn't entirely true now, is it?

In the shine of your kitchen light his hoodie seems more blue than black and his trousers appear more orange than red and suddenly you're not so sure anymore.

But you grab your phone anyway and look away for a brief second to dial 9-1-1. As you look back up again you notice he has crept much, much closer and you think he just might touch you.

But your mind tells you that he's your boyfriend's Best Friend and therefore he wouldn't dare touch you. And still there's this dark feeling tugging on your insides, knowing that he's nothing like your boyfriend and he wouldn't spare you just because of your status.

There's still the glass though, right? Building a thin barrier between the two of you, keeping you safe inside.

_Are you sure about that?_

You try to keep your eyes from flickering to the door handle and suddenly you wish you had replaced these bloody malfunctioning locks last week like you intended to.

Instead your look remains on his face that still wears this sickening smile. You take a step closer, against better knowledge and can almost imagine him having ruffled blond hair and a pair of trophy ears under this mask of his.

“9-1-1, what's your emergency?” says a soft but firm voice at the other end of the line right as your eyes fall onto the snow behind him.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat and you want to whimper, but you can't. Your phone falls from your cold, sweaty hand as you notice – there're no footprints in the snow.

You look back at his face and his smile has turned into an evil grin and your hands are shaking terribly while you watch his reflection take another step forward. You can now feel his breath tingling on your skin and you want to run but your body won't listen.

 _Trapped._ , your mind tells you. _You're trapped._

Then he curls his arms around your waist, squeezing you tight. He places a soft, lingering kiss to your neck. “I'm home," he murmurs, pulling the mask from his face, exposing a mess of black hair and a freckled face in the process, that he buries in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

A shaky breath, that you didn't know you were holding, escapes your lungs as you place your hands over his, leaning into him with closed eyes, because it's your boyfriend and he's here and you don't feel like you have to call 9-1-1 anymore.

You realise you have never been this relieved before.

So you turn around in his arms and bury your face in his shirt – blue, not black – and he smells like smoke, like blood and death. But it doesn't matter. Because it's him. You're safe. It's fine. You're gonna be fine.

You don't notice you're being watched from the woods.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, welcome to my first work on this page!  
> FEELING WATCHED is also the first part to the series  
> HOME ALONE, so yeah, I hope you stick around for  
> the rest of it!
> 
> (Sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language.)


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